Nora. Diana PalmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
boots were curled at the toes and they were liberally caked with a substance that was emphatically and explicitly not mud. If this man tried to save a widow or orphan from an upwind direction, both would probably run from him!
His blue-checked Western shirt was wet with sweat and plastered to him in a way that was almost indecent, disclosing broad muscles and thick black hair from the area of his collarbone down. She clenched her purse tightly in both hands to maintain her composure. How odd, that she could feel a skirl of physical attraction to a man so…uncivilized and in need of cleaning. Why, lye soap would hardly be adequate for such a job, she thought wickedly. He would have to be boiled in bleach for days….
He glowered at her quickly concealed smile. His hair was jet-black, straight and damp above a lean face with a layer of dust and streaks of sweat carved in its austere lines. His eyes were narrow and deep-set under a jutting brow, hidden in the shade of his wide-brimmed hat. He had thick, dark eyebrows and a straight nose. He had high cheekbones. His mouth was wide and chiseled, and his chin had a jut that immediately set her on her guard.
“Miss Marlowe?” he asked in a deep Texas drawl and without the pretense of returning her amused smile.
She looked around at the deserted platform with a long sigh. “Indeed, sir, if I am not she, then we must both prepare for a surprise.”
He stood staring at her as if he couldn’t quite get her measure. She decided to help him. “It is very warm,” she added. “I should like to go out to the ranch as soon as possible. I am not accustomed to heat and…ahem…odors,” she added with an involuntary twitch of her nostrils.
He looked as if he might burst trying not to reply, but he didn’t say a word. His look summed her up as an eastern woman with more money than was good for her and a lack of sensitivity. He was amazed that he felt insulted.
But he merely inclined his head, glancing around at her stacks of luggage. “Are you moving in?” he drawled.
Her eyes widened. “These are the bare necessities,” she defended. “I must have my own things,” she added, being unaccustomed to such questioning by servants.
He sighed loudly. “It’s a good thing I brought the buckboard. With the supplies I’ve already bought, this will sure run over the sides.”
She turned her purse over in her slender hands and smothered a smile. “If it does, you could run alongside with the overflow on your head. Bearers do that in Africa on safari,” she said pleasantly. “I know because I myself have done it.”
“You’ve run alongside a wagon with baggage on your head?” he asked outrageously.
“Why…of course not!” she muttered. “I have been on safari! That was what I said!”
He pursed his lips and stuck his hands on his hips to stare down at her ruffled expression. “On safari? A fragile little tenderfoot like you, in a rig like that?” He eyed her immaculate tailored suit and velvet hat with amusement. “Now I’ve heard everything.” He walked back the way he’d come, to a buckboard hitched to a fine-looking horse across the way from the depot.
She stared after him with conflicting emotions. None of the men she’d known had ever been anything less than polite and protective. This man was unflappable, and he didn’t choose his words to pander to her femininity. She was torn between respect and rock-slinging fury. He had a fine conceit for such a filthy man.
He hadn’t removed his hat or even tipped it in a gesture of respect. Nora was accustomed to men who did both, and kissed her hand in greeting in the European fashion.
She was too censorious, she told herself. This was the West, and the poor man probably had never had the advantage of being taught social graces. She would have to think of him as she did the native bearers she’d spoken of, kind but uneducated folk whose lot it was to serve for their meager fare. She tried to picture him in a loincloth and had to smother another laugh.
She waited patiently until her benefactor drove up in the heavily loaded wagon and tied the horse pulling it to a hitching post before he began to load her bags in with long-suffering patience.
She hesitated at the side, thinking whimsically that she must be grateful that he didn’t suggest that she ride in the back with her luggage. She looked to him to help her up to the wide driver’s seat. It shouldn’t have surprised her that he was already seated, with the reins held impatiently in his lean hands.
“You were in a hurry, I believe?” he asked patiently, and he pushed back his hat and fixed her with a look from the most unsettling eyes she’d ever seen. They were unexpectedly light in that dark face, a gray that was almost silver in color. They were as piercing as a knife blade, and just as unfathomable.
“How fortunate that I have athletic abilities,” she said with smiling hauteur before she stepped up onto the hub of the wheel and daintily swung herself into the seat. Sadly, she overshot the seat and ended up in a tidy heap across the cowboy’s chaps. The smell was dizzying, although the feel of his hard, muscular thighs against her breasts made her heart run wild.
Before she had time to be very shocked by the intimacy of the contact, he hefted her up with steely hands and put her firmly on the seat. “None of that, now,” he said with a stern look. “I know all about you wild city women, and I am not the sort of man to be toyed with, I’ll have you know.”
She was embarrassed enough at her clumsiness, without being labeled a hussy. She pushed back her disheveled hat with a hand that, appallingly, smelled of the cowboy’s boots. Her hand must have brushed the cuffs of his jeans.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she burst out, digging furiously for a handkerchief, with which she tried to wipe away the vile smell. “I shall smell like a barn!”
He gave her a narrow glare and snapped the reins to set the horse in motion. He grinned then, and accentuated his West Texas drawl for her benefit. He might as well, he decided, live down to her image of him. “What do you expect of a man who works with his hands and his back?” he asked her pleasantly. “It’s the best kind of life, I tell you, living out here in the open. A cowboy doesn’t have to bathe more than once a month or dress up fancy and practice parlor manners. He’s free and independent, just him and his horse under a wide Western sky; free to carouse with loose women and get drunk every weekend! How I love the free life!” he said fervently.
All Nora’s illusions about cowboys took a fast turn. She was still scrubbing at her hand when they were on the rough road out of town, having decided that her beautiful gray kid leather gloves might have to be thrown away. The smell would never come out.
It had rained earlier in the week, and there were deep ruts in the road that made the ride on the board seat uncomfortable. “You don’t talk much, do you?” he probed. “Eastern women are supposed to be real smart, I’ve heard,” he added, doing his rustic rube imitation to the hilt.
Nora, oblivious, didn’t realize that she was being taken for a ride in more ways than one. “If I were intelligent,” she said indignantly, glaring at him, “I would never have left Virginia!” She scrubbed furiously at another stain, on the hem of her long skirt. “Oh, dear, what will Aunt Helen think!”
He gave her a slow, wicked grin. “Well, perhaps she’ll think that you and I have been spooning on the way home.”
Her expression even through the veil would have sent a lesser man off the wagon and running. “Spooning? With you? Sir, I had sooner kiss a…a…coal miner! No, I take that back, a coal miner would not smell so foul. I should sooner kiss a buzzard!”
He dashed the reins gently against the horse’s flank when it slowed under a shady mesquite tree, and he chuckled. “Buzzards are worth their keep out here. They clean up the rotting carcasses so that the world smells sweet for you dainty little socialites.”
That was obviously a bit of sarcasm at her expense. She glared at him, but it bounced off.
“You are very forward for a hired man,” she said indignantly.
He